


No Reservations

by voksen



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Cannibalism, Dirty Talk, Interspecies, Kink Meme, M/M, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days you get the troll; other days the troll gets you.</p><p>(A troll/blood elf OMC kink meme fill.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Reservations

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this request at the Warcraft kink meme:
> 
> Maybe they're stuck scouting and haven't much to eat or something? In any case the troll decides to eat one of their kills and the elf is at first horrified but eventually tries it and it's the best thing he's ever eaten. Bonus for the troll feeding it to him.

Between being stuck back in this accursed icy hell having to fight their way through Scourge remnants _again_ , and, earlier in the day, half-tripping over a stray Alliance rogue who did his fair share of damage before going down, it has been frankly the worst mission Aethan can remember in years. At least during the Northrend campaign there had been proper support; this time around, it's only what he and 'Sora can carry on their backs. He hasn't had a decent meal since they left the Kalu'ak, nor a decent bed for a week before that.

So, when he returns from scouting, having found nothing - no trace of more Alliance outriders, not even an animal untainted by Scourge plague - to the impossibly delicious smell of cooking meat, his mouth waters almost uncontrollably as he breaks into a run. Maybe 'Sora's had a strike of luck to balance out the bad they've had in plenty ever since they set out at Garrosh's order to watch for Thrall's arrival at Wyrmrest.

'Sora's crouched over the cooking pot when Aethan tops the rise and enters their little sheltered cave, humming tunelessly to himself and stirring something that sizzles and spits with fat. A great peppery wave of steam rises up to meet Aethan as 'Sora pours in a bowl of Darkspear rice and mixes it up.

"What did you catch?" Aethan begins, and then he sees that the gnome's corpse is gone, nothing but a reddish-brown stain in the snow where he'd left it lying, and he chokes on the words: that's not a snow hare in 'Sora's pot. He'd thought it smelled good. He'd been _hungry_ , and now it's all he can do to keep his bile down, half-turning away, hand over his mouth as the world briefly threatens to gray out.

'Sora laughs. When Aethan recovers his composure and turns back to glare, the troll is chewing on something; Aethan's stomach flips dangerously again. "Don't ya be lookin' at Zul'sora like that, mon," 'Sora says around his mouthful, smirking. "I saved plenty for ya."

Aethan stumbles over his words briefly before he manages to spit out "You think I'm going to eat - you're eating - That's _disgusting_ , it's... it's barbaric!"

'Sora picks another cube of meat out of the pot: it's browned perfectly, gold with darker patches, glistening in the light reflecting from the snow, a grain of rice and a slice of hot bonnet pepper stuck to it. He turns the long fork in his hand, and Aethan can't pull his eyes away, watches with deep, visceral horror as the troll slips it into his mouth, then licks his lips with that long tongue of his.

"I seen ya do the same," 'Sora says, eventually, and Aethan's gaze snaps up from his mouth to his eyes, outraged denial forming, then shattering: "How many dragons I seen ya carve up and grill for ya dinner when we be down below? They think, they talk same as anyone else."

It's not the same, Aethan wants to say, but the words are dead in his mouth. Dragons _look_ like beasts, and the gnome had looked so much more like a _person_? He can't say that, either; not to a troll who looks less like him than the gnome had. He shakes his head wordlessly instead, walks past to his bedroll, sits down on it. There's still a bit of dry waybread in his bags, although he can hardly bear the thought of it.

He picks it out anyway, staring at it. It's crumbly and stale under his fingers; the sound of 'Sora's cooking fork scraping the iron walls of the pot is so loud it echoes. Aethan can't stop thinking about the way the steam curled in graceful twists from the meat on 'Sora's fork.

"Ya got to eat," 'Sora says.

Startled, Aethan looks up. 'Sora's filled his rice bowl with... with _it_ , now, eating sticky rice neatly with his fingers as he sits half-crouched by the fire. It still smells so good. "I can't," he says stiffly, "eat that."

"And if ya don't eat, how ya gonna heal? What use ya gonna be in the next fight if you don't fix yaself from the one before?"

"He got you worse than me," Aethan snaps, trying to ignore the nagging ghost of the fear he'd felt when he'd seen 'Sora tripped and knocked flat, tall form suddenly vulnerable to the tiny rogue's quick knives; right now, being _concerned_ about the troll should be the last thing on his mind. He immediately regrets bringing it up at all when 'Sora takes another pointed mouthful, this time half rice, half flesh.

 _Doing what he has to, to heal up?_ he wonders. He's been partnered with 'Sora for a while now, but he still doesn't know much about what powers trolls' strange regenerative abilities, whether they need meat like elves need magic. But, either way, _he_ has no such need, although a dark whisper in the back of his mind knows that at the rate they've been burning through energy, waybread and plain rice won't keep him in top shape for long.

Aethan forces himself to take a bite of the bread, banishing the voice. It's dry as ash, sucks all the moisture from his mouth, but he chews anyway, almost chokes as he swallows. The prospect of doing it again seems impossible.

His stomach growls.

"Eat just rice if ya gonna be stupid, at least."

It's ridiculous, not even a compromise: the rice will be covered in the... in... 'Sora's holding out a forkful of it, hot, plump-grained, fragrant, a slight slick sheen over it. Aethan reaches for the fork before he is quite aware what he's doing, thinks of grilled dragon flanks and of the barren ice outside, and puts it in his mouth.

The taste is beyond words. It's spicy - 'Sora's cooking is always full of peppers, sometimes unbearably so - but the fruity heat melds so perfectly with the unctuous, deep, _meaty_ base, then a bold, savory, almost-gamy bite and the soft velvet of the sticky rice - that Aethan realizes all at once in a sudden rush that this is why 'Sora's food never tastes quite right: his spice mixes are just subtly wrong for pork. For this... his mind stutters, skipping over the thought... for _this_ , they're perfect. A revelation in flavor.

Aethan doesn't quite know what's on his face; he's too busy trying to deal with the way his head is swimming with what he's just done. But whatever it is, it makes 'Sora dip into his bowl again, pull out more - no fork, this time, just his fingers - and offer him another scoop of rice.

They've done this before, played this game: with fruits a few times, once, drunkenly, with a fish dinner. But never like this, never with danger curled up so close to the surface. Never in a way that reminds Aethan so irrevocably that he's fucking a _troll_. He leans forward and takes the rice from 'Sora's hand, his lips brushing the troll's thick fingertips, and 'Sora smiles.

The next piece 'Sora feeds him has a sliver of meat in it. Aethan trembles as he chews, half-drunk on the barbarity of it, the impossibility, the foulness, the depravity of sitting in a dank little cave letting a troll feed him this... this flesh. It's the worst thing he's ever done. It's the best thing he's ever eaten.

Between them, they empty the pot.

 

 

 

The taste lingers in his mouth long into the night, inescapable, until hours later - as he's curled up by the fire, feigning sleep as 'Sora sits by his side, on watch - he realizes that it has been impossibly long. Too long for him to realistically still taste it. His mind is playing tricks on him.

He cracks open one eye, just a sliver, and looks up at the hulking silhouette: the proud crest of hair, the long razor curve of ivory. In the firelight 'Sora looks bigger, heavier, and for an instant Aethan forgets the freezing wasteland around them, imagines them together a thousand miles away, in the lush spring woods of Quel'thalas. 'Sora's fur would have to be greener, his scent of moss and pine instead of salt and leather, but in the dim flickering light Aethan can almost believe in it.

His breath catches in his throat and 'Sora, on alert, looks down at him. "Ya not sleepin'," he says, but he doesn't sound surprised.

Aethan means to tell him he has indigestion, or that it's not his business, but instead what comes out, inconveniently, is the truth of what he's thinking. "Have you ever eaten..."

He manages to stop himself before it's too late, but not soon enough. 'Sora is watching him now, intently. "Ever eaten what?" he asks, when Aethan doesn't finish the sentence.

It's too much. He can't say it out loud. He doesn't have to.

'Sora dips his head, tusks raking the air, and smiles. The light glints off sharp teeth. "Ya askin' if I ever eaten an elf?"

There's no way out of this but forward, Aethan knows, and though he should steel himself and get on with it, it's hard when he feels like jelly inside. He swallows against the illusionary taste that still won't go away and says, "Have you?"

'Sora leaves it unanswered for a long time, watching him in silence, until Aethan almost can't stand it anymore. "I think ya be wantin' me to say yes," he says finally, just as Aethan's about to demand an answer; it comes out as a harsh gasp instead. 'Sora reaches down, sets his huge three-fingered hand against the side of Aethan's uncovered face, strokes down his neck, rests over his racing pulse. Aethan can't move, feels as if he's paralyzed even as his breath speeds and he feels himself hardening at just that light touch.

"That right?" 'Sora says, one finger pressing against Aethan's neck just hard enough to let Aethan know that _'Sora_ knows every bit of his body's reaction, thick fur sleeping sack or no. "Ya wantin' to hear stories about old kills now?"

He doesn't trust himself to speak; doesn't know if he's even capable of it. But 'Sora, Light damn him, is - has always been - disturbingly good at seeing right through him.

One finger on his throat, another at the edge of his mouth. "No... I think it be somethin' else keepin ya awake, somethin' a little different, a little closer. But don't ya worry none, elf. When someone finally be too quick for ya, ol' Zul'sora be there waitin'."

The troll has him out of his furs in a flash, a swift jerk with preternatural strength. The arctic cold is a harsh slap, but then he's pulled against 'Sora's hot, lean body, cradled in his lap, and the hand that had been at his face is burning on his stomach instead, through the light linen of his undershirt.

"I kill them first," 'Sora says against the point of Aethan's ear, his tusk pressed down along Aethan's cheek a hard, deadly line. "Then..." He taps one thick finger against the end of Aethan's ribcage, just where his stomach starts, and drags it downwards slowly, teasingly, as he might have done in bed, all the way to his groin, the broad side of his finger pressing against the stiff length of Aethan's cock. "I open ya up, just like this," he murmurs.

Aethan shudders in his grasp, breath escaping with what's almost a moan, and 'Sora laughs low. "Maybe ya not quite dead yet," he says. "So I'm gonna keep ya alive long as I can. Let ya see what I'm gonna do to ya. Let ya feel it as I clean ya guts out."

He flattens his hand over Aethan's stomach, palming it easily, and Aethan can imagine it so clearly that he can smell the blood, his own blood, as perfectly as if 'Sora really had laid his belly open. His cock jerks against 'Sora's hand. It's sick. He's as sick as the troll is. Worse.

'Sora presses his tusk harder against Aethan's cheek, takes a lick - no, a _taste_ of Aethan's ear. "Then I be fillin' ya up again all the way, one last time. Tubers to hold those juices in, groundnuts and salt to flavor them, a bit of fresh herb; elf meat be too sweet, too light for hot pepper and heavy spice. Then I stitch ya back together."

This time Aethan _does_ moan.

"After that I ain't gonna chop ya up and ruin all that work," 'Sora continues, inexorably. "So I be diggin' a pit big enough to roast ya whole, give ya enough juju to keep ya alive 'til I'm done, 'til the fire I lay be good and hot. I wrap ya up in Tel'Abim leaves - I want that pretty skin stayin' nice and golden when it crisps up for me."

He's stroking Aethan's side now with his other hand, almost but not quite a lover's caress: he squeezes here, there, checking the firmness of Aethan's muscles, of his _meat_ , like a butcher would touch a carcass, thumb wrapping easily around Aethan's back, just above his waist, and lingering dangerously over his kidney. Aethan can feel his cock leaking into his sleeping trews, wants desperately to rut against 'Sora's hand where it presses into his belly, but tries to stay still. Dead still.

"When the coals be ready I finish the job," he says, pulling Aethan closer, deeper into his lap, tracing a line now from his throat down his breastbone. Shifted like this, Aethan can feel the hard, long ridge of Sora's cock pressing up against his ass even through the troll's leathers; he grinds back against it, tiny rolls of his hips, unable to control himself any longer. 'Sora bites his ear for his trouble, the very tip, his teeth so sharp they break the skin. Aethan yelps, but it's not in protest.

It's less game and more truth with every word, and still 'Sora doesn't stop talking. "I take ya heart first," he says, "Ya lungs. That meat be best _fresh_ , red raw and still drippin'. But before I tend to that I be puttin' ya on the coals and fillin' up the pit... so I can eat them while I wait for ya to cook. Maybe I wait long enough, maybe I don't. Ya be smellin' so good maybe I dig ya up early, when there still be pink at the bone, unwrap those leaves and look at what I got."

Aethan is thrusting harder now, hips twisting, seeking out the pressure of 'Sora's hand, the promise of his cock. He feels so empty, wants 'Sora to fill him up - like he'd said - just like he had said -

"And then I start eatin'," 'Sora growls, licking a drop of blood from where it's welled up at the bitten tip of Aethan's ear. "Here, and goin' down, just teeth, no blades, so I be feelin' the way ya skin cracks in my mouth, bursts, gives up all that boilin' juice to no one but me. And I ain't gonna stop 'til I finish every last bite, 'til I be fatter than an orc at harvest and there be nothin' left of my elf but bare bones. And then I sleep, and when I wake up I take those bones and _snap_ them and _suck_ the sweet marrow right out..."

The harsh sibilance of 'Sora's normally lilting voice is suddenly too much, and then 'Sora's hand _finally_ , finally dips into his trews and closes over his cock as he talks, and Aethan lets go, spilling out everything he has with a desperate, choked cry, head tilting back, pressing against 'Sora's shoulder, baring his throat to a dagger, a tusk, he doesn't know what.

When he can breathe again, he opens eyes he didn't know were closed and sees 'Sora licking his come off his fingers.

"Every last bite," 'Sora repeats softly, half-lidded smoldering red eyes fixed on his, and Aethan, lost, can only whisper _yes_.


End file.
